“The breeze inside isn’t a warm summer facial this time of year. As I stand in between two open windows preparing the day’s food, this concession trailer reminds me what its version of comfortable means. Ventilation is required as burgers, sausage, and dawgs fill the inside air with smokey droplets that need an escape. As much as I need an escape from life’s troubles these days, these little white buggers need it more. With that, I must endure being uncomfortable for a time as the winter breeze cuts across my grill watching face.”
That paragraph was constructed inside my head hours ago. I now sit – past the hours of a lunch rush crowd pushed against one of those windows – within the eight feet expanse where there’s no longer a breeze. Windows shut. Heaters on. No more smoke … for now.
If you had a chance to look in my wordpress queue, however, you’d find plenty of drafts. Thirty-eight to be exact. Three of them enlisted within the past two days. Not-so-a-musings I decided not to publish because there’s too much negativity out here in opinion land. They were stilted on two very unsteady subjects these days: politics and religion. The amens and amen-dments we were told to stay away from … with good reason. I felt horrible energy flow through my body simply typing in the words.
One post did get through, however. “It Can Be So Simple” was my response to a rather nasty comment directed at me through social media. That done, I’m over it like melted cheese on a juicy, hot angus burger. No more bitter apples to chew on while getting hooked into someone else’s can of worms. I’m done.
I care about lighter things. Jokingly, but not dismissivly, puppies and rainbows have been outflowing from my mouth lately, figuratively speaking (true magic would be the only other way). Happy, non-human delicious things of this world are capturing my attention.
Thinking, two-legged, top-of-the-food -chain breathers – like me – well, we’re not doing ourselves a whole heap of good these days. Heavy, laboring diatribes … expected to move mountains of opposing opinions … are only echoing in the valleys of similar ones. To argue for arguments sake is the tag line of every Facebook post headline. Lighten up, I say. Only a suggestion.
Fo me, I’d rather look up … and see the light.
Glenn Davis, Photographer – with my thanks to the Mishler Theater, Altoona, PA as well
Isn’t this magnificent! Take a minute, or two, and … just … look at it.
Only ten minutes drive from where I sit, and a few feet above where I sat as music director for shows in this spectacular, historic landmark, … this! A brilliance I don’t want to describe too much due to your imagination being foremost in my mind. Let the limited dimension of that picture take you to unlimited, non- political, a-theistic universes where no judgements upon you will be administered. You are allowed that space … and time.
Why? Last year was a mess. The past seven days of 2021 haven’t done any of us any favors either. Those aren’t negative words (as I promised I wouldn’t write), they’re simply facts – truths to support why we need puppies, rainbows, and a lot more light in the world right now.
The Misher has been dark for a while due to covid restrictions. My friend, Glenn Davis, gave me permission to post his photograph because he’s a kind man … a light among men. A human who, in the midst of all this, saw that light and shared it with the world.
Find your light and share it. If it’s a candle, however, beware of any draft. They’re nasty this time of year.
I run a concession stand, but don’t really cook. Sure, every week there are quarts upon quarts of very fine chili sauce marinating upon my stove – though I don’t consider that cooking. Anyone can mix up their grandmother’s tomato base, special spices, ground beef, and onions recipe in a stainless pot … turn the burner dial to medium/low heat, … to free the simmer-scent from its previously packaged existence. Right? One of my good days, casually placing meat on a grill, or condiments in a bun, doesn’t top off a Gordon Ramsay measuring cup bad day. There are guys who cook-cook, and then there’s … me.
I’m not a guys’ guy, either. In the outdoors checklist of life, there’s empty boxes beside camping, fishing, hunting, hiking, mountain biking, llama-sighting excursions, white-water rafting, or rock climbing. I have one vice in storage we found in my grandfather’s toolshed when cleaning out his estate; therefore, you can accurately assume no tobacco or alcohol products have danced across my lips (save the one drag at age twelve and once a year if that wine cooler). It’s a life.
To be honest here, I do give in to a risk/reward obsession. This is the one clamp around my personality I call a life. Casinos, pre-pandemic, and more than occasional stops to the local convenience store – during our viral experience these days – is what checks my boxes. Yep, there are way too many slips of paper and cardboard squares in my past with losing numbers on them. It’s my go-to for semi-validation, probably, and entertainment. All of us do what we do every day … week … to get by. Understanding ourselves is the key. Let’s not do a nasty on our back and pretend it’s a nice spring rain. This was my 2020. It was, I’m sure, a lot of our 2020’s.
I’ve known about my tilt into financial risk taking. I survive by taking those chances. Some work out, some don’t. They’re calculated, yet chancy, and I don’t ever place anyone in harm’s way. Nearly two-thirds the way through a life of wonderful experiences, I’m still here celebrating on the first day of a new year. You are still surviving a life you choose to live, too – with your faults and vices in tow as well.
Maybe you’re cooking today. I’m not. Guys that can are dutifully carving up delicious meats and smiling over stew pots as evidenced by my social media feed pictures. I am envious. I sit here writing words while friends internally glance over memorized recipes in their manly brains. Seasoned pork, shrimp skewers, taters my mom wouldn’t even try, silvery cutlery embedded in meatloafs and pies … all reaching out, yet ungrabable by me. A semi-opened bag of nacho chips within reach here my only friend at the moment. Wanting more is risky. A risk even I cannot take due to the, now, beginning icy road conditions and, additionally, I have some – but no exacting idea – where any of these culinary masters live. (As an aside, the uninvited issue wouldn’t bother me. Maybe them. Not me.).
The early afternoon hours of a new year bring renewed thoughts of community. A time of honesty about ourselves, others, and where we are, especially beginning in 2021, seems so appropriate.
I saw a quote run through the comment section of a friend’s post this morning: “How uncomfortable are you willing to be, so that someone else can feel comfortable?”. This gets right to the point of us – together – as a community. If we’re to be honest with ourselves, are we doing what we need to do for the benefit of someone else? What risks are we willing to take on to benefit someone else? Is unease an ingredient we’re willing to mix in to our recipe of compassion for others?
All pretty deep questions during a day when empty bottles are still rattling around on the table and paper party hats hang from lamp shades even now calmly warm from early morning festivities. Gangs of loved ones celebrating the end of a simple December day. None of us know what this new year will bring. We want nothing special from the fourth digit flip of a zero to a one, other than no more pain and suffering in the lives of those we love. Belonging to us is the hope of a new year crowded with hugs and smiles in person – not millions of 1’s and 0’s transmitting faster than a Covid-19 virus in an empty grandparent’s holiday home or local family restaurant.
The purpose here isn’t to unmask any answer. I don’t have the Gordon Ramsay magic and, thankfully, his colorful language to shock you into a new way of thinking. No meme, cute saying, or puppy/santa picture (although I do have one queued up) elegantly inserted here will either erase your memories of last year, or have you take the next happy exit ramp. Today is Friday, January 1st, 2021. “One day at a time.” is about all I can drop into the party, unannounced.
…which is really what I’d like to do soon as I’m getting hungry and there’s at least a dozen guys who can cook close by. Ah, but I do have a few other options. Friends. Friends who UberEats. I’ll allow them the pleasure through “contractual risk transfer” – despite the possibility that they’ll never know a contract exists. A simple knock and a nod blocks away by a friend could return pork and shrimp back to me. I have ways of finding addresses previously unknown. Little risk / yummy rewards. Well, I may lose a friend in the process, which would be sad. I have to think how uncomfortable I am willing to be … in order … “. Oh man! The trap we set by our own words. How about I simply invite my friends over soon to my concession trailer for a burger, or cheese-steak? At least I know I can cook those.
Start this new year knowing who you are and who you can help. Two really cool commodities that may serve you well going ahead into a time of perfect uncertainty. Level off your measuring cup and stay calm. If you’re a guy who can cook, hat’s off, my friend. Please post pictures for me to see with an address to avoid my searching google maps and, by all means, leave the front door open. I don’t want to lose any friends.
Best guess is a late 1940’s Chevrolet panel truck, thanks to my good friend Joel. Beyond any spit and polish for next summer’s picnic outing, a happy heap caught my eye. It sat only a few feet back from a two-lane road heading south from a bustling intersection where folks jammed their modern machines bumper-to-bumper at a McDonald’s drive-thru lane. A crossroads just a few minutes drive away from a lot where one could park their automobile and wait, … and wait, for a loved one to be discharged from the small local hospital. The waits are, indeed, longer now that 2020 has been in our lives. Normal time stopped being normal back around March, … here in Western PA.
Bumps, bruises, and scrapes still happen in this borough. Little ones are being born while others are saying their final good-byes in the same, small, white, one-story building known as the Conemaugh Nason Medical Center. It’s where my mother – thirteen years ago – began her five year cancer journey with the discovery of a little, stage three shadow. Her wait ended in 2012 while resting comfortably in less intimate surroundings. Time was kind to her. Happy as life was, she didn’t live long enough to see us 6 feet apart without hugging each other, or smiling behind masks. Yes, this is a time when she wouldn’t need to see the 2020 things I see – except, maybe, the really cool things like this:
I think it’s on private property – comfortably far enough away from the residence sitting yards back from the road where I pulled off the highway. Definitely not far from a shotgun’s range, however, had the owner been so inclined to aim my way during the 30-second’s time I was snap-happy with my camera phone. Hey, to get a Time Magazine worthy photo like this, one must take risks, right? Honestly, though, driving by – headed south on my way to an appointment – I made a mental note to stop on my way back through an hour, or so, later. “On the left in the woodsy patch … past the white farm house, green road sign, with the two hay bales by a rusty tractor … and three cows (if they haven’t moved) – in reverse”, firmly embedded in my mind. A lot for this mid-50’s mental confusionaire to remember, mind you, but certainly doable under the day off circumstances. And so, I did – less than an hour later. Remembered … and done.
Time, certainly, is a great word for this jalopy. What pandemic? Do you think masking and distancing bothers this guy? I drove the remaining twenty minutes to my home thinking about how slowly time progressed for him since the shiny days when life was new. Bumpers fresh, hood up and down without a squeak in earshot, hubcaps clicked in on rubbery black-mirrored tires, and 30-cents per gallon gas filled up to the top of his tank. Oh the pleasures that must have crowded into the secretive section past the front third of the, now, rusty vacated engine block? What hidden tales are still there as of yet discovered?
Seventy years. Seven decades of life breathed into this metal structure … most years sitting by the road, I suspect. In all probability, used functionally until the mid-to-late 60’s then set aside. Benefit of the doubt here: Forty years out of commission. Two scores unused, done; However, appreciated and admired more now than before – if not by others, me.
Thousands of cars drive by. This is a busy road … one of the busiest in PA – a two lane highway on the way to our Turnpike and a couple major interstates. One could find alternate routes, but time and money are valuable resources, so travelling this road is easiest and most convenient. How many passengers in Prii, Hondas, and Fords – myself included – have whizzed by over the years without noticing such wonderful friends beside the road? You’ve done it in your borough, town, and state as well. The everyday sights are so, … well, everyday, we develop an immunity to the appreciation of all that’s around us.
We look at it casually, but don’t see it for what it is. I fear this happens when we look at others, too. Those who are aged, perhaps, or less fortunate. Some who don’t look like us – sitting by the road, a bit rusty around the edges, hollowed out by a life that left them years ago when gas was more affordable for them. This is not a summons for us to appear in court for crimes against our neighbors. It is simply a typed reminder to myself, and possibly others, that responsible compassion toward others should be something we need to keep in our minds.
I drove the remaining twenty minutes simply replacing that 40’s Chevrolet with two gentleman in my neighborhood. How many times do I drive by? A lot. Can I stop every time? No. What should I do for them, especially now, when we’re in the middle of a pandemic at worse, or a really bad flu epidemic at best? I don’t know. They do have some advantages over a fragile, rusty Chevrolet. Social safety nets are in place to help the unfortunate, however, weather hasn’t been kind to them – 70-year old cars, or sidewalk folks with, seemingly, no hope, food, or family. If either are pushed, they may crumble. It’s a definite conundrum.
Whatever the look-ahead scenarios may be, we’re not excused from seeing what it is. The reality has to be noticed as it is and addressed. It starts with compassion. Responsibly recognize their bumps, bruises, and scrapes in life and help out when and where you can. I’m not advocating giving irresponsibly, or being taken advantage of by someone who doesn’t want to be helped. My Uncle always said, “You can’t push a rope” … and this is so appropriate here. Volunteer at a food bank, donate money, give of your time to a cause helping the needy … I don’t know what else may be available in you community.
This rusty guy in the picture above had some life way back when. Maybe, as I type and think, “he” maybe was a “she”? The owner loved her so much, possibly the barely legible letters once read, “Foxy lady” on the side. Last thing I wanted to do was walk up a muddy path to ask. I suspect the original owner isn’t alive to ask, anyway. The thirty-seconds along side a busy road was enough time to hop out of my Honda, take a Pulitzer-prize winning photo, then leave. My appointment went well, the bottle of tea I bought two hours prior was warm, and ten minutes ahead I had to face the memories of mom, once again, being told – for the first of many times – “cancer is your new normal”. Just ahead, Nason Hospital.
Just ahead for us? More of the same, no doubt, but with a few changes. Some vaccines will give us a light. A change in Washington coming – a slight one, perhaps, as the same old gridlock in Congress gives me little hope for reform. Some financial relief for Americans, save the billions in pork spending. Another time, another day for that.
For now, let’s keep looking – and seeing – the rusty wonders around. Be giving and compassionate toward those you see along your path. Busy road, or solitary journey, you can make a difference in their lives I’m sure.
There’s a title you don’t want to read too fast, right? All judgement aside, I’m only interested in great reads with most alluring story lines. That’s all. Attraction in its most novel form … to be clear. Three then five letters in one, not five then three. Math I didn’t see until after typing in that most (un)fortunate one word in a three word title. However, I love words, so it stays.
I love words – so much so I barely read them in books. Scanning over fictional characters’ smoochy love hugs in a dime-store, crack-back beach book isn’t my sunny day pleasure by a long shot. Draping a smoking jacket over my lazy shoulders – while sitting beside a slobbering basset hound – reading Baskerville is less suited to me than another Doyle named Brunson calling my all-in Aces at a World Series of Poker event. See, reading as a pastime, hobby, or school assignment has never, ever been a great love of mine.
I know those who do – voraciously. They eat up books faster than I shove pizza slices in my 4-times a week gapper. Eating, words, and music are more my three-ring circus. These friends and relatives exchange books in little gift bags, store plastics, and porch boxes. Back and forth go biographies, romances, comedies, tragedies, flimsy flops, and hard histories. I see them quickly buzz by, freely bartered among them-that-thespianate over such strung pages of textual bliss. I’ve Tristan and Iseult-ed once in my life. That was enough. Honestly, I don’t know how I managed high school and college, but I did … somehow.
Words – in five minute drops – are perfectly fine for me. More than that, shut the door. Which makes the 90-minute view last night quite remarkable for me. Well, not really that stunning since I wasn’t really reading.
In between the warm covers of my evening, I caught a short documentary about folks who collect antique books. Book “people”. Living, breathing kin folk who spend their lives amassing valuable, old … books. The first fifteen minutes had me at a $130,000 Don Quixote.
Hosted by the New York Antiquarian Book Fair, the event featured in the documentary returned to the Park Avenue Armory in 2020.
Courtesy ILAB
Books, books, … more old, young, and enthusiastic heart-pumping humans talking authors and editions than I’ve ever seen. White gloves in abundance with cheeky monacles inspecting ink blots dried decades before Ben Franklin was a glimmer in his mother’s eye. Everywhere the camera scanned, bookcases full with volumes of knowledge none in attendance could possibly have enough time or money to absorb. It didn’t matter to those waiting in line to go in, or to most lined up in the lobby. Readers all. Collectors of words in their heads and hearts.
Not just there, but in homes as well. Gentlemen and ladies with warehouses stacked to the ceiling with pages of stories – not only just tales from the masters, mind you, but also heroic sagas of that one, possibly multiple year-long journeys of gotta-haves that engrossed their every novel fascinations. Oversized gots with fold-outs of fish and little, century-old diaries including real mammoth hair … yep, mammoth hair. We were pretty far away from Alcott’s little darlings at this point in the story, but I’m sure Dickens would’ve approved of the twist this evening’s turn took at that moment.
During the whole time, I didn’t see many words. Just dusty old covers and lots of fancy price tags adorned the screen. $100,000 for this, $74,900 for that … oh, but the pamphlets and info were probably free. Not sure how much it was to get into the show, however, because that information wasn’t given out and, of course, I wasn’t in attendance. Didn’t even know the damn show was going on last March. How would I have known, anyway?
See, I wouldn’t be on their mailing list – as a donor, reader, or exhibitor. I’m basically broke, don’t read, and, save a few 1970’s MAD magazines in the attic, I don’t have any old paper around of any value. The closest I can come to the Antiquarian club is saying I saw Shamu once at the Aquarium at Sea World. Those two words are close, right?
… kinda like the two words Shamu’d together in the title. Ok, I’ll say it. This post today is multiple whore-ads for words. Who-reads, anyway? I don’t, in effect, for effect. Don’t have time for it. Still not judging anyone here. You’re obviously a reader of high quality or you wouldn’t have lasted this long today, or longer, with me on DougHugs.
Dickens, Doyle, Alcott, and never the Twain shall meet … me, probably. I’m way beyond school, thankfully, and only read books with lots of pictures and/or blogs I can write – hopefully lasting less than five minutes.
If you need a book to read, I have friends. Just let me know.
See, here’s the thing. I’m not the luckiest guy in the world. Wherever that gold mine is – with riches untold – a scratched instant game card, or row of six numbers leading me to the state lottery office for a multi-million dollar check … I’m not there. One could argue “yet”, and be correct, but after years of haphazardly wishing my way toward that big red X on the map, I’m not holding out much hope. This is o.k. because millions of other treasure seekers are happily leading their destiny donkeys across the barren gambling desert with me. I’m certainly not alone.
“Shallow men believe in luck or in circumstance. Strong men believe in cause and effect.” – so penned the famous American essayist, Ralph Emerson, who lived a good hundred years before Martin Handford asked, “Where’s Waldo?”. This 20th century British illustrator, I’m quite confident, knew all along Waldo was the loosely held middle nomenclature of the aforementioned prolific philosopher. Knowing that, however, didn’t stop Mr. Handford from searching for Waldo, or depositing over $20 million bones to date into his bank account over the years from sales, licensing, and royalty contracts. More to the point, ” … rise early, work late, and strike oil.”, as J. Paul Getty once spewed from his mouth. Martin Handford certainly did that, right? The work he put into creating and developing the character, making the contacts necessary to publish his work, and the long hours – all to his credit. We can’t set aside many others who did – and continue to do – the same, if not more, and have little to no credit with no bones. Yes, the the backbone and drive to continue forward, but no cashola or contracts, licenses or royalties. Still searching for their Waldo.
Luck is such a weird concept. It appears randomly without cause and effect. Unpredictable which, I guess, is the very definition of it. “Success or failure apparently brought by chance rather than through one’s own actions”, is the pedantic, boring definition when googled. I’ve danced with her countless times and have so many bruised toes as slot machines, instant, and mega-millions tickets slammed down upon my already tired, wanting to be incredible, feet. It’s not wanting to be instantaneously rich that hugs me as we sway, more the process of satisfying my inner need to calm the waters at that moment. This is, as well, the excitement that drives those of us who get up every day to cut a rug with a new sales day – a time where we don’t really know who, or what, will take our hand. Who or what will try to take the lead. The dance, for sure.
If luck be the lady, Mr. Sinatra, I’ll dance. Oh, and I’d sure like to meet the lady who was lucky enough to find this gem in an attic a few months ago:
I’m a sports card collector. An amateur, but I know a bit more than the average Joe Jackson out there. Travel only a few short miles from my house and you’ll end up at the hospital where the woman works as a front line worker. She deserves every bone deposited because of the work done the past nine months. That card above came from Johnstown – a city about 40 minutes’ drive south of here. Rarity drove the price up from a starting bid of $25,000 to almost $350,000 in 16 days. According to the article, she kept 80% and the auction house retained 20%. Two-Hundred eighty thousand dollars for a little piece of cardboard attic find? Not a bad piece of luck … and slice of history either because a picture of the “Babe” – the Sultan of Swat – in a pitching stance is rare – rare, indeed.
She was lucky. Lucky her great-grandfather didn’t toss away that card (or some others in the box) when he could. Lucky they were stored away in a cold, dry place. Lucky that house didn’t burn down or be sold. Lucky, if sold, that the box wasn’t lost in a move. Lucky there wasn’t a water leak in the roof. But, not lucky that rarity drives prices up … and up … and up in the collectibles market. Luck, in the supply/demand curve here, does not have a dance card. Even in the midst of a pandemic, a miserable 2020 during which folks are scratching their collective heads, those who want, … want, and are willing to bone up close to 350G’s for a slab of cardboard with a guy’s picture on it.
Remarkable, but not surprising.
I wasn’t aware of this until it appeared in the local papers. Surprising since I, myself, appear frequently in the local card shop to converse with the locals. We know the vibe about town. There’s always scuttlebutt about the who’s and what’s when it comes down to these cardboard men and ladies in the sports world. To have a really rare, gradable, Ruth card like this around the area … in a collection with other cards from the same set … and none of us know? Hmmm. Or, perhaps, some did know and kept it pleasantly quiet which, by the way, I would have done as well. I certainly would have … most assuredly … without hesitation … wall-flowered the whole process!
This lady, again, was lucky. All of us are genuinely happy for her. To not be shows an out-of-touch reality and a, err … Ruth-less personality. How could anyone not marvel at the odds of someone shuffling through an old box in an attic only to find, months later, $280,000 in their bank account?
Lou Gehrig, a later contemporary of Babe, spoke these words in his “Farewell to Baseball” address: “Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”. Quoted often, most omit the first word, “Yet”. The sentence before, he says, “Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about a bad break I got.” … Then continues, “Yet …”.
So often there is heartbreak before luck. Lou Gehrig was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. We know that, right? It is a disease that destroys the neurons that control voluntary muscles. Lou used “yet” as a conjunction between two worlds, saying, “I’ve been told I’m sick, yet life has been spectacular.” Bad luck, nah. No such thing. The “Iron Horse” died June 2nd, 1941, after 17 seasons with the New York Yankees.
Between 1925 and 1934, Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth were teammates with the Yankees and were next to each other in the batting order. I would think that’s the best luck in the world, but I’m a simple man. One who has been though his – and his grandfather’s grandfather’s – attics many, many times searching for something – anything – that would bring in skeleton’s bones fortune. Alas, it has not panned out. My grandfather was young when these cards were new, crisp, and white. Not this one in particular, but cards of the same class. Cards he often told me were so expensive, even by today’s prices, if he bought even one, there’d be hell to pay. Besides, most were sold as promotions with cigar, or cigarette packs, so they were off limits to him, anyway. I’d argue the point with him to no end. Oh, there actually was an end. He walked away. If you’re thinking of my dad’s cards from the 50’s – like the ’51 Bowman or ’52 Topps Mantles? Uhm, grandma threw them out. Yeah. Luck be a lady there, too.
So, I didn’t write a best seller or find any real valuable cards around. Most of us won’t. See, here’s the thing. I’m not the luckiest guy in the world and my name isn’t George. Oh, and I have a brother, but his name isn’t Harry, so he can’t claim the quote, “A toast to … The richest man in town.” … Yet.
One day, he may be able to make that toast, however, I’m not changing my name. It is a “Wonderful Life” and our lives are a process whether we have a Clarence, a Ruth, or a Gehrig to remind us of such a fact. It’s not whether we have a remarkable find in our attic. It’s all the little bells that give the angels their wings, I suppose.
I wrote “I’m not holding out much hope” earlier, and that’s true. Nonetheless, I have to be truthful, real, and in that tiny space where our tires are on the road. Luck is rare in the sense that it appears as instant wealth, three cherries, or six numbers and a mega-ball. Luck isn’t so bad in good friends, health, a really cool job, food, family, and a little hope going forward. All of this is unpredictable. Even the friends, health, and jobs as 2020 so frighteningly brought to the plate. We struck out so much this year. With the final innings … yet … to go, we must hope for a grand slam here. Let’s stay in the game, at least, and give our teammates a chance:
Up to the plate steps the Babe, with a bat in hand. Points to the outfield. Here’s the pitch – from Charlie Root, the Cubs pitcher whowould give up a three-run homer to Babe Ruth in the first inning and a solo shot to Lou Gehrig in the third. The famous “Called Shot”. October 1, 1932.
The Yankees won the World Series 4-0 over the Cubs that year.
If it happened then, it can happen now. Even in empty stadiums, I can hear the cheers of many over the doubts of the few. No bones about it.
The Pittsburgh Steelers lost their first game of the year yesterday evening. To be honest, it wasn’t pretty from what I understand. I spent no time viewing the black-and-gold eleven run up and down their empty stadium field as there were higher priority items on my to-do list. Mainly, supper. An evening meal from Cracker Barrel followed by errands necessary to prop up the week ahead: an ordinary six days before my next day off. One-hundred, forty-four hours of believing I’m doing the best I can with what I have.
As all activities wound down and my friends – dishes, ladles, and lids – began to dry in preparation for their duties, social media started to ping away on my phone. One final check of the score, 23-17, confirmed my suspicions from what I saw all over Facebook friends’ pages. Our beloved Steelers lost. They are longer holding hands with the magical ’72 Dolphins undefeated season. Worse yet, a no-name, no longer Redskin, ‘Washington Football Team” is responsible for that solitary “1” standing alone across from two “1”s in their, now, 11-1 record. So many reasons for the loss spattered all over the comments. None change my life. In nine hours and thirty minutes, I’ll lift a concession window and open my business to start six days of sales. No time in my life to figure out the hows and whys the Steelers came up six points short last night. I have to assume they did the best they could with what they had.
All this because I saw a simple statement at the end of a friend’s post on FB … “We should try to do things the best way we can”.
No surprise to anyone it was framed around the masking, Covid debate. There are too many information discrepancies floating around on droplets either too heavy to inhale, or too irrelevant they evaporate immediately after facing some heat. Her point was simple: Do your life thing the best way for you based on the information you have …. how you understand it to be. Well, at least this is how I think the statement should be interpreted, anyway.
However pleasing that statement is on the sidelines, this is the line of scrimmage where our opposing opinions seem to clash. We have our team of aggreable members wearing the same home jersey in the huddle. Across from us, there is a defensive team consisting of an equal number of 11 players opposing our 1 unified position. They, as well, are sweating this out … hoping to steal back an ironic, elusive, yet fungible, pigskin emblazoned with the initials N.F.L: Nobody Finds Life to be an absolute, yet this is what the game looks like from any casual observer sitting apart from covid-affected, no beer lines, empty stadiums.
Coaches on the sidelines – not so disguised as politicians, social media pundits, and in-person/on-line friends and family members all calling in plays to those in the game – are hoping their team will win the day. Celebrations muted, of course. as there is always another game to play in a week or so. Another team, another day.
See here’s the playbook, though. Each team is looking at a book of X’s and O’s deciding on a strategy … how to play the game. How to win the ultimate prize: the games of all games: surviving day by day until this pandemic is over and we can get back to life as normal…
It may not not look like it – glancing through all the dripping sweat and sardonic tiptoeing on the sidelines – but everyone is doing the best they can. Between unforeseen emotional and medical injuries and referees calling separation penalties, each huddler is doing his and her job as assigned by his or her individual life coach. That coach being the drive to be a good person. An individual who wants what’s best for everyone else even if it means that player across from them has a helmet on of a different color, race, gender, nationality, … or, may not have a mask firmly attached.
Yeah, so cool a team with no name at present broke up the Steeler’s bid to become the first complete undefeated 16 game season team in 48 years. A team we should celebrate today. Not only because they made it difficult for me to structure that first sentence, but also because we need to start thinking of ourselves being on the same team. All of us. Without a name.
Sure, I can get upset and rant about the far right-wing’s ridiculous position as noted a few days ago. We can, honestly, take a position we find offensive and scream from the upper tier. This is still an America where opinions do matter.
Overall, however, to be so divided over this pandemic is hurting our chances to shake hands at the end of the game – to be good sports and show our kids how to play a game as adults. With respect and kindness. To have them toss that football with us in the backyard – and not feel penalized by a burden of woes and regrets – is a wonderous unmasking of possibilities for them.
The Steelers were defeated. We don’t have to be. They lasted as long as they could before, well, fate stepped in and stopped them short by six points. Sure. Mike Tomlin is disappointed. I’m not, really. It’s only a game and I’d rather have them lose one now than go undefeated, 16/0, then lose a game in the playoffs. Will they win the Superbowl? Geesh, I don’t know. This year, who know anything, really.
Let’s keep on keeping on doing the best we can. Opposite opinions we can’t avoid. Wear your home Jersey with pride and just be nice to one another. Shake hands after each game, even if it gets a bit ugly at the scrimmage line for sixty minutes, follow the rules the best way you know how.
Oh, and for goodness sake, please take a shower afterwards.
2020, so far, has played us. Not like fools, mind you. We weren’t taken advantage of by a year so deeply sinister that it planned months of masking, delirious days of distancing, and financial fiascos years ahead of time. No, this year, itself, was bluffed into believing it had a hand in our positivity as the ball dropped on January 1st, precisely at 12:00 a.m. in New York city. Ah, yes. “2020 vision” … as I’m sure not to be the only one using this obvious phrase to describe what we should have seen coming …
… or, should we? In hindsight, there were no warnings. No tells, as they say in the poker world. No way of knowing, in 2019, the following year had wild cards to play from a deck of 54 – when we thought the year ahead had only 52. Fifty-two weeks of more freedom, joy, family, and good health. Two extra inserted jokers disguised as a virus and an unprepared nation … Yep, a stacked, heaping pile of numbers that kept rising, no ace in the hole, and no unifying face of the nation to win the day as 2020 began to deal cards … over and over … until we no longer had hands big enough to hold them.
No. We didn’t see this. No way did any of us expect 2020 to unfold into the disaster it has become. Maybe, just maybe, we believed the Presidential election was going to test our political patience, but that’s about all. We weren’t suited to handle the problems that came beyond that. What came across the felt, we felt, seemed to trump, yes Trump, the ideology of half our nation’s views. The other half spent minutes Biden their time (pun stolen from social media) until the final card was counted on some date on, or after, November 3rd.
Now, at least, I think we have some resolution on this. After all the post-election shuffling by one wheeler-dealer, we should be swearing in a new President on January 20th, 2021.
That’s seven weeks from now. As it stands and we sit at the table, this virus is still here – and it’s quite the pro at knowing what cards we have without even peeking over our shoulders. It knows our houses are not full – of people or hope like we had. It knows we’re not thinking straight, sometimes, because we worry about our finances, jobs, elderly relatives, schools, and communities. It knows some pairs are not together anymore because the emotional stress from the last nine months was just too much. It knows some faces are flushed and are no longer alive and aglow with vim and vigor for life. These once fresh, snappy smiles are now in the struggle of their lives … learning how to breathe all over again, or, perhaps holding the hand of someone they love.
This is what 2020 dealt us. All of us, whether you are sitting at the table or not, are playing to stay alive. This may not suit or be the most convenient, but we have no choice to play the game of pandemic poker right now.
However, we do have 19th century words of advice speaking to us from the well-worn sagely deck shown. If you listen, you will hear. They’ve survived two card wars before our time and solitary moments as one upon thousands sat in convalescent facilities hoping a grandchild would visit, or a lost spouse’s hand could hold their loved one’s heart one more time.
And it is these words:
Forty-eight weeks into a year of really trying to understand ourselves. Four weeks to go … four colors in a deck representing the four seasons we have experienced 75% of in limited glory. Spring, summer and fall – the magnificence of rain, sun, and leaves all tainted by a virus … with pure white snow to come, surely palen ahead of schedule. Thirteen, so unlucky, … hopefully the moon will cycle around our Aces through Kings, our 1s through 13s, to lower our numbers and help us become at least average again. I’ll take a push … a bet with my money back against the dealer. To hope for anything better – a winning hand right now – is a fool’s folly.
The virus is still here at the table and has the deck. For now. It’s 2020 and we’re here. The poker room is hugely huge and fully full with people of all nationalities, sizes, shapes, beliefs, and haircuts. This is such a unique game of poker, though. There’s only one freakin’ deck. The standard rules don’t apply and the dealer cheats.
Oh, although I’m a recreational player, can’t say I know how to win. Even if I had true 2020 vision, the chances of my figuring a way around the poker table here? Zilch. Nada. Zero. All I can offer up are my hopes and dreams of a better 2021. That’s it. A “Brand new 52” is dealt to us then – as this flippin’ year comes to a close December 31st at 11:59:59 when the ball drops, silently I’m sure, in New York city.
The Ohio river flows 981 miles from the southern edge of lake Erie to its mouth on the great Mississippi river, passing through – and by – two hall-of-fame sports cities along the way: Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. Combined, the two have 19 championships as follows: Steelers – 6, Penguins – 3, Pirates – 5, and Reds – 5. Unfortunately, the Bengals are one of a few NFL modern era teams yet to score a Lombardi, but hey, there’s time.
In 1975, nicknames were flowing for the Superbowl winning Steelers and World Series Champion Reds. For the Reds and Steelers, these nicknames were off the tongues and typewriters of sports writers … fluently-friendly they were – these words with the heft of a linebacker and the grace of a finely tuned, well-executed fast ball. The “Big Red Machine” including Bench, Rose, Morgan, Pérez, Concepción, Foster, Griffey, and Gerónimo took care of business pretty much the whole decade, not just that year. The “Steel Curtain” nickname came easy as well for the quartet of the Steeler’s defensive front four, L.C. Greenwood, Joe Greene, Ernie Holmes, and Dwight White.
Yep, 1975 was a year to celebrate the Ohio river’s glory. “La Belle Riviere”, as this magnificent body is so aptly nicknamed, has outlasted – and will continue to – the hoorays and cheers of those years. Forty-five years and millions of heart-breaking moments later, we have memories and, maybe, a few autographs and game day programs. The players are retired, coaching, or, well, … dead. This applies to many of us, too – the fan base who held on to our dads’ hand while walking into a stadium for the first time as a deep, rich announcer’s voice echoed throughout.
1975. Ohio river and two teams. Also the year a sit-com taught us one really valuable lesson. Not through really bad acting (which there was), or quite mundane script writing (which there was) or, kinda bad wardrobe choices (which there was), or my complete disdain for Bonnie Franklin (which there was), or my wish that the writers would never develop a plot around Mackenzie Phillips (which they never honored), or my sincere love toward Valerie Bertinelli (which WAS honest and for true 😍)… It was the title: ONE DAY AT A TIME.
This is a saying I toss back and forth once in a while with a wonderful friend of mine. Certainly not an original phrase, it has been twisted, turned, modified, memed, run up and down the motivational speaker pole, and shouted from the pulpits of every denominational oratoty. I claim no originality in posting it here. “One day at a time” has no greater meaning than it does today, or any day for that matter … especially in 2020.
My friend, with whom I transfer this glorious pentaword phrase, sometimes approaches her days cautiously, but even then, undaunted with silent resolve is she. Under the black light of a pandemical petri dish as all of us are, she’s a survivor’s survivor.
When we were born, the maker of our forms placed a timer on our spans. The width between coming and going we don’t know. All we’re guaranteed is that it’s significantly shorter than 981 miles and less important, overall, than the Ohio river to our great American society. Yes, collectively, we add up to a great team if we played as one; However, if 2020 has taught us anything, we ‘ain’t all wearing the same jersey, are we? Each one if us, simply, were given one-day-at-a- timers and it’s up to us to use them.
Those timers are the other people in our circle who make a difference and can help us when we need help. Friends who we reach out to with a text saying, “I’m sad today and here’s why …”, or “My job is frustrating me. Can we talk for a few minutes?”. These co-breathers, especially now, are the real champions in our lives. They go to bat for us. They stay under center when we seem to be running all over the field.
We have no fancy nicknames for these heroes in our lives, nor are there hall-of-fame buildings erected in their honor. Timers must suffice for now. No sit-coms will ever come close to script the lines, fashionably drape a cast, or hire a lead actress that will ever gratify my need to priviledge the timers in my life. I’m so ok with that truth.
Heading down one of the greatest unknown rivers in the past 100 years, we need all our friends to help us stay afloat right now. Reach out to a champion. Our world is not a bell-bottomed, steel curtained, big red machine forty-five years later, for sure. We have each other, though, and also one day at a time.
Both, together, make any show worth watching and walking into a stadium with a dad, for any day’s game, a championship moment.
This is the back window view from my concession trailer, the wonky-winky sticker added virtually to protect the proprietor; although, she knew that was going to happen, I suspect, if she’s worth every ounce of crystal in the ball resting comfortably on her velvety red table. I see this sign every day when firing up my propane tank on that side of my business and always wonder: Is there an external, psychic force – unbenounced to any living concessionaire – applying positive or negative energy to me?
Usually unanswered, this query goes. Usually. Today, I felt the force. It came quickly in the form of a short, blue flash of light. A propane brightness followed by a stench of burnt hair. This is not uncommon to me. I should have seen it coming. Rather, SHE should have seen it and warned me … somehow, through a telepathic, psychic foodie, synaptic sensory system. Twice this has happened in the fifteen years I’ve been twisting tubers on a grill. “What?”, you ask. Step #1) Hook up propane tank and turn on the nozzle, Step #2) Walk into warm trailer, Step #3) Not remember that I didn’t turn off the griddle the previous evening, aaaand Step #4) stick a long handle ez-lighter in the hole while, subsequently, clicking on the flame … score: four-burner chamber 1, Doug 0.
At that point, it just was. No sense arguing the point with any universe willing to listen. I raised a few eyebrow hairs I had remaining and tilted my head. Fortunately, two days prior I shaved. Also, most head hair was covered with a ball cap and arm follicles, similarly, with my hoodie sleeves. Save a few back of the hand stragglers gone the way of hair-burn obscurity, all was well.
All was well … everything except the remaining smell of hair torched by irresponsibility. Boy, does that linger, or what? Not only the smell, but the fact I walked through steps #1 through #4 without thinking. Shhh (🤫) .. it happens, right? No getting around accidental mishaps and misdemeanor maladies. The bothersome bugger to me is the always lingering, “Why?”.
“Why” didn’t I turn off the burner last night? I always do. “Why” didn’t I check to make sure the burner was off before lighting?
The “Why didn’ts?” and “Why dids?” in life. No wonder Ms. Medium across the lot fascinates my opening minutes so much. Problem is, she predictably predicts – or portends to – know the future, but can’t explain the whys of our past. No finely swathed clairvoyant can. It’s up to us to put the pieces together. We have to look at the tarot cards of our own printing, the crystal ball polished by our attitudes, and the palms exposed in the hands we were dealt at birth.
Why did my mom die from cancer after five years of the best treatment this area could offer her? Why didn’t the Covid-19 virus remain dormant – somewhere deep – so it wouldn’t affect millions of people around our beautifully populated world? These are two unanswerable “whys” in my tank as I sit here after seeing a blue, red, and yellow flash of light … a light I’m glad I wasn’t walking heavenly toward eight hours ago. I can’t Uber you to a Psychic hoping she will look into your eyes and find whys, brilliant answers to your questions right now. Depending on what you believe, an afterlife may, or may not, be that eternal flame of forever findings – the place where mom, possibly, is finishing Schubert’s Symphony and understanding why ovarian cancer has a mind of its own.
So, today ends where it started. Is there an external, psychic force – unbenounced to any living concessionaire – applying positive or negative energy to me? … or, by extension to you?
If you believe there is … sure! If not, perfectly fine by me as well – not that my approval or disapproval makes any difference in your life.
We make our decisions and move forward. Chance happens. Luck pops up. Possibility, probability, … fluke, fortuity, friends, and foes all are constantly flowing through the gas lines of our lives.
… but the names I called this limb probably hurt someone’s ears.
Just sayin’
To the unknown cart pushers who casually walked by with eggs, ramen noodles, and an over-supply of T.P., I sincerely offer my apologies. You didn’t need to hear my words. Yes, I valiantly tried to dislodge this protuberance a few times and it finally came undone, but not before looser language freely flowed, carte blanche, from my mouth.
Apparently, I traveled many a mile unaware of my wooden hitchhiker dragging its sorry stick-self along for the ride. Don’t know where I picked it up, or how it found its way in and around the fine Michelin tire. One of four taking me to breakfast, Sam’s Club, the bank, storage, Sunoco, home and Weis Market almost every day … including today.
Those poor Weis customers. I’m sure the language wasn’t unfamiliar. Any sailor in their family would say the same, I’m sure. Now, to be clear, I didn’t know the severity of limb vs. tire situation. Clearly, it wasn’t too bad, just a bit twisted …
The surprise in these moments is always the worst part. I had eight six-packs of soda in my unplanned trip to Weis cart. Running late, as usual, my mind was on the next hour … not on playing a round of log-in-wheel.
The previous time in my morning was filled with news I didn’t want to hear. Most of it, I didn’t hear – I saw on this little bearer of words known as a smart phone. Texts sent with sentences I was hoping not to see. No fault of the senders … much appreciation and care to them. Both of them know my thoughts.
If you’re guessing covid-related, you’d be correct.
In a few short paragraphs, I’m now a cart pusher of thoughts while my senders spent their morning twisting larger emotional and medical logs out of their tired, sore, drained selves. Moments of surprise to me. Not so much to them as they battle valiantly through their situations.
… Sticks and stones may break, but words can never hurt me…right?
We fought bullies and generational wars. The latter I never experienced first hand, but the former I’ve hand a hand in. None compare to this year’s Covid virus … all of it. The opinions, science, politicization, familial strains, financial stress, business shut-downs, … every last word spit out through masks of different ideologies.
I know we can’t live in a world where nobody gets hurt. There will always be branches stuck in someone’s tire. There will always be these surprises catching us, well … by surprise.
Just today, for some reason, the texts weren’t good surprises and the usual first log post of the day was jammed in the back wheel of my van – not happily typed here. This Covid is a bully. Period.
I’m confident everything will work out for those I was in touch with this morning. Secondarily, my van tire is fine and that stupid branch is now resting comfortably on the cart return rack at Weis for them to deal with later today.
We have a way to go. How far? I just don’t know. One day at a time. Bullies can’t handle that plan, so how about it? What’s the good word? I say: HOPE.
Hang in there. If I can get a stupid log out of my tire, there’s hope for all of us.
